Chapter 16: The Unspoken Challenge
The dawn that filtered into Gareth’s shelter was the color of weak tea, doing little to warm the deep chill that had settled in the stones overnight. They moved in the quiet, efficient rhythm of people who knew the price of delay. Gareth had secured horses sometime in the dark hours—two sturdy, unremarkable bays and a grey mare with intelligent eyes. They stood now, stamping in the clearing, their breath pluming in the damp air.
The plan was a clock in their minds, each tick measured in miles and risk. They had to be in position near Blackwood before Rysen’s panic could manifest as anything other than a sealed order carried by a single courier.
Sera packed the last of the venison into a saddlebag, her movements stiff. The charcoal-smeared stone with its forged query was already miles away, carried by a street urchin Gareth trusted with a silver crown and a lie about a love letter. The deed was done. The hook was cast. Now they had to become the net.
Callum finished checking the grey mare’s girth. He flashed a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright, up you get.” He didn’t ask. He simply walked over to Sera, who was standing beside Mia.
Before she could process his intention, his hands were on her waist. They were broad, warm, and impossibly solid. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, settling her sideways onto the grey mare’s saddle with a gentle but definitive thud. The world tilted for a second.
“Callum, I can—” she began, her voice tight.
“You can, but we’re in a hurry,” he said smoothly, his hands lingering for a half-second longer than necessary on her waist, a steadying pressure. “And you’ve got the most precious cargo.” He turned and scooped up Mia, who giggled, depositing her in front of Sera. “You hold onto Mama, little duck.”
From the corner of her eye, Sera saw Vincent. He had frozen in the act of securing a pack to one of the bays. His back was to them, but she saw the line of his shoulders go rigid, the deliberate slowness with which he tightened the strap. His jaw was a hard contour she could see from ten feet away. He said nothing. Not a word.
The silence from him was louder than any protest.
Kya, watching everything with her too-old eyes, tugged on Vincent’s cloak. “Can Leo and I ride with you?”
Vincent turned. The cold mask was perfectly in place, but his eyes were two shards of winter sky. He looked from Kya’s hopeful face to Leo, who was studying the ground near his feet. He looked past them to where Callum’s hand was still raised, ready to guide Sera’s foot into the stirrup.
“Of course,” Vincent said, his voice even. He bent down, offering his back to Kya. “Climb on. You’ll have to hold tight.”
Kya scrambled onto him with the fearless agility of a squirrel, locking her arms around his neck. He straightened, bearing her weight without a flicker, then turned to Leo. He didn’t pick him up. He crouched, bringing himself to Leo’s level, much as he had in the mud.
“You’ll ride in front of me,” Vincent stated. “You’ll need to hold the pommel. Can you do that?”
Leo nodded, a serious, miniature soldier. Vincent lifted him, settling him with careful precision onto the saddle of the second bay. Then he swung up behind him, one arm securing the boy, the other taking the reins. Kya clung to his back, a small, warm weight.
It was a picture. Callum on the ground, his hand now resting on the grey mare’s neck, close to Sera’s leg. Vincent on horseback, a child anchored before and behind him, his posture a study in controlled isolation.
Gareth mounted the last bay, breaking the tableau. “Three hours to the ridge overlook. Move quiet.”
They moved. The forest swallowed them, the only sounds the crunch of hooves on frozen leaves, the jingle of tack, and Mia’s occasional, bright chatter to Callum, who walked beside their horse, leading the mare.
Sera felt split. Mia’s small body was warm against her, a comfort. Callum’s presence was a steady, humming energy at her side, his shoulder brushing her knee with every other step. He kept up a soft, running commentary for the children, pointing out a bird’s nest, a peculiar fungus, making the grim journey feel like a peculiar adventure.
“See that, Leo? That’s a squirrel’s pantry. Probably full of stolen biscuits.”
“There are no biscuits in the forest, Uncle Callum,” Kya’s voice came, muffled against Vincent’s cloak.
“You’d be surprised what a determined squirrel can lift.”
But Sera’s attention was pulled, like a compass needle, to the man riding behind her. Vincent was silent. He responded to the children in monosyllables when directly addressed. His focus was on the path, the trees, the horizon—anywhere but on her and Callum. She could feel the chill of his disapproval, or was it something else, radiating across the space between them.
After an hour, they reached a shallow stream. Callum led the mare through, the water splashing up to his knees. “Don’t worry, ladies,” he said, looking up at Sera with a wink. “I’ve got you.”
On the other bank, Vincent dismounted fluidly, lifting Leo and then Kya down. His movements were efficient, devoid of Callum’s theatrical care. He said nothing as Callum offered a hand to help Sera dismount. She took it, her own fingers cold in his grasp. The moment her feet touched the ground, he let go.
“Rest here,” Gareth announced. “Five minutes.”
The children scrambled to explore the streambank. Sera leaned against a birch tree, her legs trembling from tension, not fatigue. Callum came over, offering a waterskin. Vincent stood apart, checking his horse’s hooves.
“You’re doing well,” Callum said quietly, for her alone.
“I feel like a sack of grain you two are politely arguing over,” she muttered, the words escaping before she could cage them.
Callum’s smile faded. He glanced at Vincent’s back. “It’s not an argument. He’s just… Vin.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He thinks I’m being reckless. With you. With this. He’s probably right.”
“And you?”
“I’m choosing to be kind in a world that hasn’t been. If that’s reckless, I’ll wear the title.” He took the waterskin back, his fingers brushing hers. “He’s feeling it too, Sera. He just thinks feeling it is a tactical liability.”
Before she could untangle that, Vincent approached. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze on Callum, then shifting to her. “We need to discuss the approach to the west gate. Hollis.”
His tone was all business, a wall of crisp professionalism.
“Right,” Callum said, the easy charm snapping back into place like a shield. “The dice-cheating guard. I’ll need a pouch of silver that sounds convincing. And a good story.”
“Your face is a good story,” Vincent said drily.
“My face is a trustworthy story. Unlike some.”
Vincent ignored the jab. “Sera, describe the gatehouse. Sight lines. Where does Hollis usually stand?”
She closed her eyes, pulling herself back to that hateful place. “The gatehouse is stone, moss on the north side. Two archer slits, usually unmanned. Hollis prefers the lee of the western wall, out of the wind. There’s a broken crate he uses as a table. He’ll be there if he’s on duty, rolling bones against himself.”
Vincent nodded, absorbing the data. “Callum approaches Hollis there. Gareth and I will be in the tree line fifty yards east, where the old fence collapses. If it goes sour, we can be on him in twenty seconds.”
“It won’t go sour,” Callum said. “I’m very likable.”
“Your likability has a quantifiable failure rate,” Vincent stated, his voice flat. “Approximately one in seven encounters, historically.”
Callum laughed, a real sound. “You keep tallies? That’s morbidly charming.”
“I keep ledgers,” Vincent said, and the double meaning hung in the air, pointed and sharp. He finally looked directly at Sera. “Can you draw the layout of the yard beyond the gate? The quickest path to the keeper’s quarters where the orders would be delivered?”
She could. She did, with a stick in the soft earth by the stream. They knelt on opposite sides of the crude map, their heads not touching this time. He asked clipped questions. She gave precise answers. It was a different kind of intimacy, colder but no less intense, built on a shared desire to dismantle a monster.
Callum watched them, the humor fading from his eyes, leaving something more contemplative and unresolved.
The five minutes were up. Gareth whistled.
As they moved to remount, the same unspoken dance repeated. Callum moved to help Sera. This time, Vincent spoke.
“I’ll take Mia.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a quiet, undeniable statement.
Callum paused, his hands halfway to Sera’s waist. He looked at Vincent, a challenge flashing in his gaze. Then he shrugged, a fluid, conceding motion. “Sure. She’s a good rider.”
Vincent stepped forward. He didn’t look at Sera. He held his arms out to Mia. “Come here, Mia.”
Mia, delighted by the novelty, lunged for him. Vincent caught her, his large hands utterly gentle as he settled her against his hip. He carried her to his horse, placing her in front of Leo. “You two hold onto each other,” he instructed, his voice softer than it had been all morning. He then mounted behind them, a fortress of a man between three small children.
Sera was left with Callum, who finally lifted her onto the mare. His hands were still sure, but the playful energy was gone, replaced by a focused stillness. He didn’t comment. He just passed her the reins and turned to lead the horse.
They rode on, the dynamic shifted. The weight of Vincent’s silence was now a physical warmth at his back, where Mia’s small head leaned trustingly against his chest. Sera, behind Callum, watched the straight line of Vincent’s spine, the way Leo’s small hands were splayed on the pommel, Vincent’s own gloved hands holding the reins on either side of the boy, a protective cage.
No one had won anything. A tension had simply been redistributed, acknowledged, and folded into the mission.
The ridge overlook appeared ahead, a jagged break in the endless trees. Gareth raised a fist, and they halted. Below them, in a mist-filled valley, the dark, irregular scar of Blackwood’s walls was just visible.
The game was on. The players were in position, their hearts a tangled, complicated mess of motives beating in the cold morning air. All that was left was for the quarry to run.
Sera’s breath catches at the looming sight of her old prison. An old chilling fear running down her spine. She squeezed the reins tighter, the leather creaking in her grip.
The leather creking her grip was the only sound she allowed herself. The walls, from this distance, were just a smear of darker grey against the mist. But her body knew the dimensions of that despair, the specific echo of boots on those damp stones.
Vincent dismounted first, lifting the children down with that same silent efficiency. He passed a small, brass telescope to Gareth, who grunted and moved to the ridge’s edge. Callum came to stand beside Sera, his shoulder just touching hers. A steadying point of contact.
“It looks smaller,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.
“It’s exactly the same size,” she said, the words thin. “The world just got bigger.”
Vincent didn’t join them at the overlook. He busied himself with the horses, checking hooves, adjusting straps. But his posture was all directed tension, a coiled spring pointed at the valley below. Leo wandered over to him, holding a prickly pinecone.
“For the horse,” the boy said, offering it.
Vincent took it. “They prefer apples. But the sentiment is noted.” He pocketed the pinecone. “Stay close to me now, Leo. No wandering.”
Gareth lowered the telescope. “Two on the west gate. One’s lounging on a crate. That’s your man Hollis. The other looks bored out of his skull. Patrol just passed the south wall. Four men, shambling.”
The clinical report helped. It turned the place back into a problem, not a memory. Sera exhaled slowly. “The patrol circuit takes twenty minutes. There’s a blind spot near the eastern storage sheds for about three.”
“That’s our window to get inside after Callum,” Vincent said, finally approaching. He stood on Sera’s other side, not touching her. He studied the valley as if it were a ledger sheet. “Callum secures the order. We move in, secure the keeper. Then we wait for Rysen’s reaction.”
“And if the keeper has guards with him?” Callum asked, his eyes narrowed as he gauged the climb down.
“Then we adjust,” Vincent said, his tone leaving no doubt about the nature of that adjustment.
“Right.” Callum clapped his hands together, the sound startling a bird from a nearby tree. “Let’s get the littles settled. Gareth, you’re on nest duty.”
The “nest” was a concealed depression behind a thicket of holly, lined with blankets from the packs. Kya helped Mia arrange her doll—a knot of fabric with button eyes—on a makeshift pillow. The normalcy of it was surreal.
“You listen to Gareth,” Sera told them, kneeling to pull them each into a hard, swift embrace. She smelled their hair, committing the scent of pine and wool to memory. “No matter what you hear. You stay here.”
Kya nodded, her small face grave. Leo’s lower lip trembled, but he pressed it into a line, imitating Vincent’s stoicism. Mia just blinked.
“We’ll be back before you’ve counted all the pinecones,” Callum promised, ruffling Leo’s hair. He then turned, his lightness evaporating. “Let’s walk the final approach.”
The three of them moved a short distance away, crouching in the brittle ferns. Callum sketched lines in the dirt with his knife. “I approach Hollis here. Charm, silver, a tale of a rushed journey and a generous master. I get the seal, I go in.”
“You’ll be unarmed,” Vincent stated.
“I’m always armed,” Callum corrected with a ghost of his grin. “But yes, no visible steel. Once I’m in, you two give it a count of one hundred. Then you come over the east wall by the sheds.”
“Hollis will be watching you enter,” Sera said. Her mind was clear now, cold. “But once you’re inside, he’ll go back to his dice. His profit is made. The inside guards are lazier. They won’t challenge an imperial courier unless the keeper specifically orders it.”
“Which he will if he’s spooked by our fake letter,” Vincent mused. “We’ll need to reach the quarters before that order can be given.”
The plan was threads, each one frayed. Sera looked from one man to the other. “The keeper’s name is Argo. He’s afraid of Rysen. More than he is of anything else. Use that.”
Callum met her gaze and gave a slow, understanding nod. Vincent simply watched her, his grey eyes assessing the new variable.
A twig snapped. Gareth appeared, his expression grim. “Rider. On the north road. Moving at a speed.”
They scrambled back to the ridge. Vincent lifted the telescope. The world narrowed to a circle of clarity. A single horse, lathered. A rider in a dark, serviceable cloak, a satchel worn crosswise over his chest. The man’s face was set in a hard, hurried line.
“Imperial courier,” Vincent confirmed, voice flat. “He’s making good time. Rysen didn’t wait. He panicked.”
The hook had been swallowed. The fish was running.
Callum stood up, brushing dirt from his knees. All trace of humor was gone, replaced by a lethal focus. “Perfect. I’ll meet him on the road. Borrow his identity before he reaches the gate.”
“Too risky,” Vincent snapped. “An altercation on the open road leaves a body.”
“A friendly exchange between colleagues leaves a confused man tied to a tree,” Callum countered. “I’ll be the senior courier, sent to expedite. He’ll be relieved. People love to be relieved of responsibility.” He was already moving towards the horses, selecting a knife with a narrow blade and slipping it into his boot. “It sells the urgency. Hollis will buy it faster.”
Sera’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was the pivot. Vincent looked like he wanted to argue, but the ruthless logic of it was sound. He gave a sharp, conceding jerk of his head.
“Gareth stays with the children. No matter what,” Vincent ordered.
“Understood.”
Callum reached his horse and swung up. He looked down at Sera, his face unreadable. Then he glanced at Vincent. “Try to keep up, Sterling.”
He didn’t look back. He kicked his horse into a canter, disappearing down a deer trail that switchbacked towards the north road.
Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. Vincent stared after him, his jaw working. Sera wrapped her arms around herself. The distance to the nest felt like a mile.
“He’s good at this,” Vincent said, though it sounded like it cost him something to admit it.
“He is,” she whispered.
Vincent finally turned to her. “When we go over that wall, you stay behind me. Not a debate. Your job is to identify Argo, then get to a corner. Clear?”
She wanted to protest, to say she was stronger than he knew. But the memory of the cellar, of the years, rose up like a foul tide. She was smart and protective, not a warrior. “Clear.”
He gave a single nod. Then his gaze drifted to the holly thicket. “They’ll be safe with Gareth. He’s a ghost. Fought with my father for twenty years.”
It was an offering, a piece of personal history to anchor her trust. She took it with a nod of her own.
They waited. The wind picked up, whispering through the pines. Somewhere below, a real imperial courier was about to have a very bad day, and a man who cheated at dice was about to make an unexpected profit. The mechanisms of their design were in motion.
Vincent’s hand went to the pommel of his sword, his fingers tapping a silent, restless rhythm against the cold metal.
The minutes bled together, each one stretching like tar in the winter sun. Vincent’s tapping fingers were the only sign of the energy coiled inside him. Sera watched the road below through slitted eyes, every distant bird call sounding like hoofbeats.
Gareth’s voice was a low growl from the thicket. “Kids are asking.”
“Tell them we’re birdwatching,” Vincent said, not turning around. His gaze never left the bend in the road where Callum had vanished.
Sera’s palms were slick. She wiped them on her trousers. The grey mare, still saddled, lipped at a patch of moss. The normalcy of the animal’s hunger felt absurd. Mia’s laugh, muffled by the holly, was a shard of glass in her chest.
Then, movement.
A single horse walked calmly onto the muddy approach road towards Blackwood’s west gate. Its rider sat tall, the sun glinting off the polished brass buttons of an imperial courier’s jacket. The dark cloak was correct. The satchel was crosswise. Sera’s breath caught.
“That’s him,” Vincent murmured, more to himself. He raised the telescope. “It’s Callum.”
The figure’s posture was perfect—official, slightly impatient. He rode straight for the gate, for the two guards now stirring from their boredom. Vincent’s lens tracked him, a tiny figure in a circle of clarity. “Hollis is standing. He’s putting his dice away.”
They were too far to hear anything. The pantomime was excruciating. Callum reined in. A conversation. Callum’s gesturing hand, broad and explanatory. The guard, Hollis, scratching his head. Then, a pouch changed hands. Hollis hefted it, his posture shifting to recognizable greed even from a distance.
“Silver’s persuasive,” Gareth grunted, having crept up beside them.
Callum dismounted. He handed his reins to the other guard, a gesture of easy authority. Hollis was already leading him towards the heavy gate, one hand patting the pouch at his belt. The gate, a dark mouth in the wall, opened just wide enough. Callum disappeared inside.
The gate closed.
Silence reclaimed the valley. The second guard leaned Callum’s horse against the wall and resumed his slouch. Hollis returned to his crate, presumably to count his windfall.
“Now,” Vincent said. The word was a released trigger.
He moved to the horses, his movements suddenly fluid and decisive. He checked the buckles on Leo’s small saddle one last time. “Gareth. You know the signal.”
“Three crows call. Anything else, I fade with them into the deep wood.” The older man’s eyes were flint. “Go.”
Vincent looked at Sera. “Ready?”
No. She wasn’t. But she nodded, pulling herself onto the grey mare without assistance. Her muscles protested, cold and stiff with dread. Vincent mounted his own horse, his expression stripped down to its essential elements: focus, and a cold fury held in check.
They took the descending trail at a careful walk, the sound of hooves swallowed by the soft earth. The woods here were thick, the pine canopy blocking much of the weak light. It smelled of decay and resin. Sera’s heart thumped a wild rhythm against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the plodding steps.
They hit the tree line exactly where the old fence collapsed into a tumble of rotten posts. Fifty yards of open, frozen field separated them from the eastern wall. The storage sheds were just visible, their tarred roofs sagging.
“Count,” Vincent whispered, his eyes on the patrol path along the south wall.
She counted in her head. Each number was a hammer strike. At thirty, the four-man patrol shambled into view around the far corner. They moved with the lethargy of men performing a pointless ritual. They passed the sheds. They turned the corner at the east wall and faded from sight.
“Go.”
Vincent urged his horse into a sudden, startling burst of speed across the open ground. Sera kicked the mare, clinging to its mane. The wind bit her eyes. The distance felt vast, exposed. Any face could appear at the archer slit.
They reached the wall, slamming back into its shadow. Her horse skidded on the icy mud. Vincent was already off his mount, pulling a coiled rope from his saddlebag. A heavy iron hook, blunt and practical, was knotted at one end.
He judged the distance to the parapet, a good fifteen feet above. He swung the rope twice in a tight circle and let it fly. The hook arced up, clanked against stone, and caught. He yanked hard. It held.
“You first,” he said, lacing his fingers together to make a step. “Quickly.”
She didn’t argue. She put her boot in his hands. He boosted her upward as if she were made of straw. Her fingers scraped stone, found the rope. The world shrank to the feel of rough hemp and the sheer face of the wall. She climbed, her arms burning with a strength she’d forgotten she had.
She hauled herself over the parapet and onto the narrow walkway, pressing herself flat against the damp stone. The yard below was a cramped courtyard of hard-packed dirt. It was empty.
Vincent followed, climbing the rope with a silent, predatory ease. He joined her on the walkway, coiling the rope swiftly and stashing it behind a rain barrel. His eyes scanned. “The shed.”
He pointed to the largest of the dilapidated structures below, its door hanging half-off its hinges. It was three yards from the base of the wall. There was no ladder down on this side.
“Jump,” he said. “Roll when you land. Go.”
He went first, dropping the short distance and landing in a low crouch, the impact barely sounding. He looked up, nodded. Sera swung her legs over, pushed off, and fell. The ground rushed up. She hit, her legs buckling, and let her shoulder roll into the fall as he’d said. The breath whooshed from her lungs.
A hand closed over her mouth.
She stiffened, panic lancing through her.
“Shhh.” It was Vincent, his body shielding hers against the shed’s wall. His lips were close to her ear. “Guard. Passing close.”
Boots crunched on gravel, just around the corner of the shed. They stopped. A man sighed, the sound bored and weary. Liquid splashed against the wall as he relieved himself. The acrid smell reached them.
Vincent didn’t move. His body was a wall of tense heat. His hand over her mouth was firm, not cruel, his palm dry. She could feel the steady, controlled beat of his heart against her back. The guard finished, muttered something, and his footsteps crunched away, fading towards the main building.
Vincent removed his hand. “Now.”
They slipped inside the shed. It was dim, cluttered with broken barrels and rusted tools. Dust motes danced in the slatted light. It stank of mildew and old rot. Sera oriented herself instantly. This was the back of the storage block. The keeper’s quarters were through the main yard, in the low stone building with the green door.
“We wait for Callum’s signal or a disruption,” Vincent whispered, peering through a crack in the wall. “If he’s gotten the order, he’ll be taken to Argo. Our move is when they’re together.”
“He should have been out by now,” Sera breathed. The silence from the compound was oppressive.
“He’s managing it.” Vincent’s tone left no room for doubt, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the wall. “He’s good at talking.”
A raised voice echoed from across the yard. It was followed by the sound of a door slamming. Then another voice, higher, pleading. Sera knew that second voice. It was Argo.
“That’s it,” she said.
They moved. Vincent led, sticking to the deep shadows along the sheds. The main yard opened up—a space she’d crossed a thousand times under different eyes. The well. The whipping post. The door to the kitchens. It was all exactly, horribly the same.
The green door to the keeper’s quarters was ajar. The arguing voices spilled out.
“—unexpected, but the directive is clear! You must prepare the ledgers for immediate audit and confine the assets!” That was Callum, his voice layered with impenetrable, bureaucratic arrogance.
“But the procedure… Lord Rysen’s own seal, yes, I see, but… an hour, just an hour to compile—” Argo, whining.
“You have minutes. The inspector is on his way. Do you want to explain your disorganization to him?”
Vincent gestured to the side of the door. He drew his sword. The soft shing of steel was the most dangerous sound Sera had ever heard. He met her eyes and mouthed, Now.
He kicked the door open.
The scene inside was a frozen tableau. Callum stood in the center of the cluttered, foxed-smelling room, one hand resting imperiously on the hilt of a borrowed knife at his belt. Argo, a paunchy man with thinning hair, stood behind a scarred desk heaped with papers, his face pale. A hulking guard stood near the inner door, his hand going to his own weapon.
Time fractured.
The guard lunged at Vincent. Vincent parried the clumsy strike with a contemptuous flick of his wrist and drove his pommel into the man’s temple. The guard crumpled like a sack of meal.
Argo screamed, a thin, reedy sound. He fumbled for a drawer.
Callum was on him in two strides. He didn’t draw the knife. He simply grabbed Argo’s wrist and smashed it against the desk edge. A bone snapped with a dry pop. Argo’s scream cut off into a wheezing sob.
“The satchel,” Vincent said, his sword point hovering near Argo’s throat.
Callum snatched the leather satchel from where it lay on the desk. He tossed it to Sera. “Check it.”
Her fingers trembled as she tore the flap open. Inside was a single, heavy parchment, sealed with gleaming black wax stamped with a tower. Rysen’s personal seal. The order for a purge. She looked up and nodded.
“Please,” Argo whimpered, cradling his broken wrist. “I just followed orders.”
Vincent’s face showed nothing. He looked at Sera. “Is there a cellar? A lock-up?”
“Beneath the kitchen. A bolt-hole.”
“Right.” Callum hauled Argo up by his collar. “You’re going on a little trip, mate. Lead the way quietly, and you might keep your other hand.”
They moved back into the yard, a shocking procession. Vincent in front, scanning. Callum propelling a stumbling, weeping Argo. Sera in the middle, the satchel clutched to her chest like a talisman. The yard was still deserted. The routine, the deep rot of the place, was their best cover.
The kitchen door was unlocked. The room inside was cavernous, cold, and empty, a giant hearth cold and black. The smell of old grease turned Sera’s stomach. She pointed to a rough trapdoor in the stone flags.
Vincent lifted it. Darkness and a smell of damp earth wafted up. “Down.”
Callum shoved Argo towards the hole. The keeper cried out, but a look from Vincent silenced him. He scrambled down a crude ladder into the blackness. Callum followed, disappearing after him.
Vincent turned to Sera. “You should go back to the wall. Wait there.”
“No.” The word was out before she thought. She stared at the open trapdoor. “I need to see him down there.”
Vincent studied her face. He saw the need, the old terror demanding a final shape. He didn’t like it, but he gave a short, sharp nod. “Quickly.”
She descended the ladder into the cellar she’d only heard whispers about. It was worse than she imagined. Chains bolted to the wall. A drain in the floor. Argo was cowering in a corner, his good hand over his face. Callum stood over him, his expression bleak in the sliver of light from above.
Sera walked towards Argo. She stopped a foot away. He peeked through his fingers.
“You sold my daughter Kya for seven silver crowns,” she said, her voice flat and strange in her own ears. “To a merchant from the southern pass. The entry was on the third page of the spring ledger two years ago. You spelled her name wrong. She was only seven. A baby.”
Argo just stared, his mouth working silently. The specific, mundane horror of it, the proof living and breathing above him, was a weapon she hadn’t known she held.
“The world’s getting bigger,” she whispered.
She turned and climbed the ladder back into the light. Vincent helped her out. His hand was warm and sure on her arm. Below, Callum was speaking, his voice low and lethal.
“You’re going to sit here, Argo. You’re going to be very quiet. If you’re lucky, someone will find you before you starve. If you’re unlucky, we come back.”
They lowered the trapdoor. Vincent dragged a heavy flour barrel over it, sealing the exit with a final, grating sound.
For a moment, they just stood in the empty kitchen, the only sound their breathing. They had the order. They had the keeper contained. The first part was done.
Callum wiped his hands on his trousers, a gesture of profound distaste. “Now we wait for Rysen’s inspector.”
“We don’t wait,” Vincent said, his eyes already on the door back to the yard, his mind leaping ahead. “We send a rider. From here. Using their own courier horse. We tell Rysen the purge is botched, the keeper’ talking, and the inspector needs to come personally to contain it. We force the confrontation here, on our ground.”
Callum’s grin was a flash of white in the gloom. “Now you’re thinking dirty. I’ll write it. I’ve got his phrasing down.”
He went to the keeper’s desk, scavenged a fresh parchment and ink. Sera hugged herself, the satchel heavy against her ribs. Vincent watched the yard through a crack in the door.
“We’re still inside the beast,” he said, not looking at her. “Just deeper in its gullet.”
From outside, faintly, they heard a child’s laugh. It was Mia, carried on a freak twist of wind from the ridge. It was a sound of pure, oblivious joy, impossibly distant from the damp stone and the sealed trapdoor at their feet.
Sera closed her eyes. She held onto that sound. It was the thread she would follow back out.